Gregory House - The Lord Of Misrule

Of course, if those measures didn’t work… well he’d cross that shit filled sewer when he came to it. Unconsciously he swung right into Bread Street after an unfruitful hour of scouring the riverside haunts of rogues around Queenhithe Ward. It was a few streets to the tavern and Ned could already hear the coins draining from his purse. Damn, not even enough to flee to Calais, that’s if any ships would risk the drifting floes of ice in the river, he’d have to ride down to Gravesend. His better angel chastised him on these thoughts — desertion of ‘sweet’ Meg Black, how could he even think it? At the same time his daemon gibbered in fear, reminding him that Mistress Black may be a reformist minded girl, but she still believed in the Old Testament style of revenge and she had lots of keen friends overseas not to mention that fearsome, secret satchel of hers. No. Reluctantly Ned put the idea of escape aside. Damn, he’d have to be all chivalrous and take the blame. That wouldn’t be so bad, except that all through this disastrous venture he kept on having the tingling suspicion that it wasn’t only Mistress Black who was playing him like a mummer’s puppet.

Some part of this ghastly venture was out of kilter. A part of his mind not currently imagining throttling revenge worked over the problems. Young Dellingham arrived fresh faced and meepish in the city. By some strange manner Ned Bedwell, the least reformist of Cromwell’s retainers, was selected along with Meg Black to lead this lad through the devil’s playground that was London city. Then over the course of two nights and the intervening day, this innocent rampaged through Satan’s cesspits, upsetting men even Ned would creep quietly past. What’s more, Walter had won at cards at least twice, dicing four times or so and Earless Nicks’ evident easy possession of the lad created its own suspicions. How had he done it? His daemon hinted that both Nick and Walter moved in too close a symmetry for chance. Chance huh! Chance had nothing to do with this at all. It was true that Lady Fortuna was known to cast her favours in an irregular fashion, but why would it all land on Walter? And why now? Luck didn’t flow like that in London. He should know!

This all still rankled him and Ned stopped in the midst of the street causing a following carter to curse him as an imbecile and to tell him in no uncertain terms to get out of way. Jumping aside he shifted towards the corner of St Mildred’s and Bread Streets and lent against the wall, under a projecting eave deep in thought. Ned had seen many tricks and cony plays before, loaded dice, shaved dice, marked cards, and he’d gained a canny knowledge of what cony traps were favoured and where. But it had taken months of watching and even so you still missed many gambits such as Earless Nick’s tricks with his five iron rings and lodestone dice. What a canny use of modern natural philosophy! If he hadn’t spoken to Rob last week and if their chat hadn’t veered towards the strange properties of iron on a pilot’s compass, Ned would have been lost. But that wasn’t all. One had to have the knowledge of where to go to employ these advantages. Ned had been in London on and off for a few years and he still occasionally got lost. For instance Earless Nick’s lair. Without Gruesome Roger’s reluctant admission, it would have remained hidden. So how did young Walter unerringly head for these secret haunts? His daemon suggested that was a secret to pry out later. In the meantime other more expensive matters held sway.

However the events of last night still held his thoughts in thrall, such as the manner of young Walter’s discovery at the Black Goat. According to Roger that room upstairs was packed with unclad girls all cavorting with the innocent lamb. Thus in one blow the tally of Walter’s codsmanship, stood at four or five, or even six. Well thankfully that evidence dismissed his prior suspicion of a prenuptial contract between Meg and Walter, so some good news after all.

Ned was about to head off when he heard a chorus of piteous cries. He stopped for a moment to locate the source and then he remembered where he was. That had to be the inmates of the Bread Street Compter. It was the common ward gaol, where debtors and law breakers were lodged. Those that could, begged through the barred windows. One wheedling voice in the cracked melody however sounded gratingly familiar. Ned’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Perhaps, perhaps Lady Fortuna had favoured him? Cautiously he edged along the wall closer to the gaol. Oh yes he recognised that voice! It was his dear friend and errant charge, Walter. Ned smiled.

He sat at the bench of the small ale house around the corner from the Compter and sipped the thin ale. Not what he was used to, but at least it was drinkable. With the most feral of grins, he studied the letters before him. It had been a simple task to acquire one of the street urchins to act as a messenger and fetcher for young Dellingham. Running errands for prisoners was how they earned their keep. It had been easy to supply paper, quill and ink from his own clerk’s satchel and have the finished correspondence returned to him. Walter had been a very, very busy young lad. For a simple fellow from Shropshire, he knew a fair number of merchants and goldsmiths, and if the requests were anything to go by, the meek and mild reformer had stashed away quite a sum. Seven pounds was not the kind of coin that jingled loose in the purse. His spree had been meticulously planned and the cajoling/blackmailing rescue letter to his ‘long time friend’ Earless Nick revealed more than was prudent to put on paper. Now it was just a matter of Ned taking advantage of this golden opportunity, but first to make a few preparations of his own…

***

Ned had put on his best arrogant air as he sat in the Warder’s chamber of the Bread Street Compter. Rob stood behind him playing the role of imposing retainer. His size helped if not his good natured appearance. Tam Bourke would have been perfect for this task. However Ned needed someone who’s usual reaction to a delicate problem wasn’t to thump it until subdued. Anyway even the drunkest of his fellow Christmas revellers respected the ‘protection’ that Tam represented.

After some delay Warder Locksley shuffled into the room and plunked himself into a handy chair, sighing with the effort. Ned gave him a rapid inspection. The official was maybe five foot odd tall, had a portly appearance and short grey beard. His doublet and gown were of a decent quality cloth and cut, while his podgy fingers displayed a love of gold rings and ostentation. At a guess the warder extracted a goodly share of fees and gifts from his charges. Well Ned could work with that.

The Warder huffed a bit, unfolded a small letter and peered at it frowning. “So Master Bedwell, how can I be of service to Councillor Cromwell?”

Ned had found it convenient on more than one occasion to employ the name of his patron for smoother transactions. “My master requests that young Dellingham be released to my custody. It is a matter of concern to the Privy Council that he’s being unlawfully restrained here.”

The Warder puffed out his cheeks and tut-tutted as he pulled out a pile of what looked like writs. “I fear Master Bedwell, his detention at the Compter is entirely legal, as these will show.”

Ned picked them up and gave their contents a quick perusal. He bit his lip. Oh yes, they were undoubtedly legal. Despite the occasional wandering script, each was signed by justice of the peace. The names of the officials however gave him concern. In these dozen sheets you had as fine a selection of venial and corrupt Londoners as you could find. Ned didn’t have the luxury of playing the Courts so this had to be settled quickly and quietly. “I see, Warder Locksley. Hmm, Councillor Cromwell would prefer if this was dealt without fuss.”